


Replaced

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Multi, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: You’re pregnant with your first child and your husband has vanished without a trace. What do you do when his mysterious co-worker suddenly shows up on your doorstep?





	Replaced

Your heart flutters as you stare at the twin pink lines. After three years of treatments and one miscarriage, it’s finally happened…You can only pray there are no complications this time.

You can already see your husband’s face - the way his eyes widen and face smooths when he’s surprised. He’ll laugh, and his eyes will be wet just like yours. He’ll kiss you happy-sloppy and you’ll run your fingers through his chestnut locks.

And then you’ll both sleep; deep and restful, dreaming of your growing family.

*****

The time on your phone reads 7:06 P.M. Sam was due home over an hour ago, and he isn’t responding to your texts or phone calls.

 _It’s okay,_ your brain tells you,  _he just got stuck in a meeting._

But your gut disagrees, it knows better. Something is wrong.

You glance at the pregnancy test still lying on the kitchen table as you eat dinner for two alone.

_Everything is fine, he’ll be home soon._

*****

It’s ten o’clock and you’re sick, physically sick. He’s not answering at all. You’ve called and texted his closest friends, and only two have responded; they haven’t heard from him.

You’d have a drink if you weren’t carrying life inside of you. His life; his flesh and blood.

Your pillow is soaked through with your tears by the time you finally succumb to exhaustion.

*****

Sam sits in his car, blinks at the glow of his cell as he reads over the text like it will eventually make sense.

It doesn’t.

_I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. Don’t call, don’t text. It’s over. It’s been over for a long time now. Start over, Sam. Find someone new. Find peace._

_You can get your things on your lunch break. Please don’t come when I’m home. I can’t be there._

The text comes right after his:

_They fucking fired me._

A million thoughts buzz and swirl in Sam’s mind.

_When did this happen?_

_What did I do - what_ didn’t _I do?_

_Why didn’t I know?_

He thinks he can actually feel the break in his heart, feel the deep fissure zig-zag its way down the middle.

Then he thinks maybe it’s a joke. It’s tasteless, and not at all his wife’s style, but it’s a possibility…

Isn’t it?

He reads it again for what must be the twentieth time now.

And he knows it isn’t a joke. She wouldn’t joke at a time like this. He runs a hand through his hair, ignores the sharp pain when his knuckles snag on a tangle.

 _Everything,_  Sam thinks.  _He’s lost everything._

And it’s his fault. Every bit of it. It’s his fault because he put his career first. Put it in front of her. He deserves this.

He won’t go get his things. He can’t, he can’t go back to the museum of the life he fucked up. He won’t do it to  _her_.

So Sam turns the key in the ignition and heads south.

*****

You’re surprised to see him standing on your front porch the next evening, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his black jeans.

“Ketch?” you say, voice lilted until his name is almost a question. “What’re you doing here? Have you heard from him?” Your words are fast and strung together, nearly slurred in your impatience.

His face is solemn, lips a grim line across his face. “Afraid not,” he says in his British accent, voice careful-soft.

“Oh,” you breathe.  _Then why are you here?_

You’ve known Arthur Ketch almost as long as you’ve known Sam…yet you don’t  _know_  him. You see him every year at your husband’s company’s Christmas party, and he occasionally comes to the house for beer and football - but you really don’t know anything about the man other than the fact that he’d moved to the U.S from England at the age of eighteen.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “Please - come in.” You step back, bringing the door with you as you beckon him inside with an open palm.

Ketch scuffs his boots on your doormat, drags a hand through his hair.

“Beer?” you ask, already heading toward your kitchen.

“Yes,” he says. “That’d be great, thank you.”

He takes a seat at your kitchen table as you scoop the chilled brew from the fridge. You grab a soda for yourself.

“I’m gonna file a missing person’s report tomorrow,” you announce, sliding into the chair at the head of the table. “I should have already.”

Ketch nods, twists the lid off the bottle with crisp hiss. He takes a swig, then frown at the glass as he sets it down.

“I mean that’s the next step, isn’t it?”

He shrugs, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “You might…wait?”

“Wait? Ketch, something has happened.”

“We don’t know that.”

You scoff, irritated that he can keep his voice so smooth, so  _calm_  while your very world crumbles.

“He’s not answering my texts or my calls. I’ve called all the surrounding hospitals, but what if-”

“I spoke to him”

There’s a suffocating silence as the words soak in.

“You  _what?”_

Ketch sighs, takes another long swallow.

“When?!” Your voice is unnaturally high and you can hear your own thumping heartbeat.

“Early this morning…I didn’t want to tell you…He was fired yesterday.”

“He…what? Why?”

Ketch’s lips move, but there’s no sound to accompany them.

“I can’t.”

“Tell. Me.” You can almost see the heat of your own gaze burn right through him.

“The director’s wife,” Ketch says after a long pause. “Sam was…” He works his jaw, searching for the right words, but you don’t need to hear any more.

“No,” you say, say it easy like you’ve just been asked if you have blue hair.

He still isn’t looking at you, swipes his thumb through the condensation beaded along the brown glass.

“I’m sorry.” It’s just a whisper, but still hurts your ears.

“That’s not…” You swallow, shake your head quick, like it’ll clear your mind of the news. “That’s not possible.”

But it is, isn’t it? All those business trips, all those late nights at the office-

Jesus. He’s been fucking someone else.

“Are you alright?” Ketch’s velvet voice is hazy; distant - and you can’t seem to pull your own voice out from underneath the crushing weight of shock and betrayal.

Warm fingers curling around your wrists pull you from your trance.

“Hey,” he breathes low, shifts his hands over yours. It’s oddly calming.

When your eyes find his, he smiles soft and closed-lipped.

“You’re not alone.”


End file.
